


A Feeling Like Home

by Corrosive_Moon



Series: I Think, Therefore I Am [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist!Crowley, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), CyberLife (Detroit: Become Human), Depression, Disability, Disabled Character, M/M, android!Aziraphale, detroit: become human au, no knowledge of Detroit: Become Human needed to understand, would you smooth an android?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-01-26 13:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21374707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corrosive_Moon/pseuds/Corrosive_Moon
Summary: A prequel to "A Touch of Deviance."[Edit 7/29/20: Now with Chapter 2!]-------Anathema sits down on the bed and sets his sketchbook aside. “You’re getting an android caretaker.”Crowley glares at her. “I am not—“ he grounds out, but Anathema cuts him off.“You need help around the house, you won’t like a human caretaker, and an android is much more likely to put up with you,” she reasons, and damn her she’s always so good at reasoning.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: I Think, Therefore I Am [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1521767
Comments: 30
Kudos: 240
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley buys an android and adjusts to life after his accident.

**[2034. ]**  
[4 years ago.]  
[6 months after the accident…]  
.

.

.

.

**[0 Days Together]**

“This is ridiculous,” Anathema declares.

Even before Crowley looks up from the blank sketchbook he’s been staring at for the past half hour, he knows how Anathema looks. She has her shoulders squared, her hands on her hips, and her face set in that _Look_ he has come to dread. She seems to be expecting him to say something, so he does.

“What is?”

“When was the last time you got out of bed, _besides_ to go the bathroom?”

He considers lying for a brief moment, but he knows it would only piss her off. “I can’t remember.”

“Exactly!” Anathema sits down on the bed and sets his sketchbook aside. “You’re getting an android caretaker.”

Crowley glares at her. “I am _not_—“ he grounds out, but Anathema cuts him off.

“You need help around the house, you won’t like a human caretaker, and an android is much more likely to put up with you,” she reasons, and damn her she’s always so good at reasoning. He looks away from her.

Anathama sighs softly and carefully places her hand on the bed, palm facing up, so that if he wants to take her hand he can. And that little bit of consideration makes his heart twist with so much guilt Crowley has to bite his tongue to keep from blurting out an apology.

He places his hand into her soft palm. “All right,” he mumbles. 

\---~*~---

Crowley frowns at the rows of androids in the Cyberlife store. Even with their evident android markers, the uncanny, human-like features make him a little uncomfortable. Anathema and Newt have journeyed with him. Though, Newt’s staying outside to keep from causing an electronic apocalypse. Anathema is beside him, pretending to listen to the salesman rattle off all the features of the new household android model that speaks however-many languages and has so-and-so features and this-and-that customization.

That’s when Crowley catches sight of it. It’s a male android tucked away in the corner, some distance away from the slim, shinier models. Light blond hair, round face, and stocky features. It’s smiling pleasantly at the other patrons with its hands behind its back. 

“What’s that one?” Crowley asks, urging his wheelchair forward.

It’s crowded, but people are more than willing to give allowance to a man in a wheelchair as Crowley gets closer to the platform. ‘A2 series,’ it reads below the android. 

“Ah, that’s a repurposed android,” the salesman explains.

“Repurposed?” Crowley repeats. 

“It’s an outdated combat android from the A2 series. Since androids aren’t cheap to make, some of them are adapted to take on different duties instead of being deactivated. This one is lightly-used, but it works perfectly. The combat features have been disabled, of course, and the IOS has been updated for household care. It speaks about 300 languages, cooks 5,000 dishes and—“

“I’ll take it,” Crowley says. 

The A2 android turns to him and smiles. 

The salesman beams. “Very good, sir.” 

The paperwork is drawn up, the warranties explained, and Crowley pays. 

“A2,” the salesman calls, “come meet your new owner: Anthony J Crowley.”

“Yes, sir,” says the android brightly. It steps off the platform and approaches Crowley. 

“Oh, would you like to register your android’s name?” The salesman asks.

Crowley drops his gaze to the stack of paperwork he had to sign and his eyes fall on the android’s serial number. _Model #A21-R4PHA-L3._

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Great!” The salesman turns to the A2. “A2, register your name.”

The android’s LED flickers yellow as it looks at Crowley.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley announces.

The android smiles again. “Hello, my name is Aziraphale. It’s nice to meet you, Anthony J Crowley.”

“Just Crowley’s fine,” Crowley corrects. 

“Very well. Nice to meet you, Crowley.”

\---~*~---

Despite his incapability to handle anything electronic for more than five minutes, Newt has a deep love for technology. This is why he doesn’t stop gushing about the android since they stepped out of the store together.

“The A2 series was _revolutionary!_” Newt says. “It was the first model to really pilot and successfully implement an advanced probability algorithm that allowed it to make quick decisions in hostile territory! And they’re sturdy too! Nowadays, since more androids are being produce for commercial purposes instead of battle, the endoskeletons are made with more aluminum to make them more lightweight and easier to produce! And did you know the A2 series were the first androids to properly feel hot and cold? Oh! I wonder if I can—“

“Don’t touch the android, Newt!” Crowley and Anathema warn. Crowley, adding to the point, twists around to the backseat, lowers his sunglasses to reveal his slit-like pupils, and fixates Newt with a menacing glare. Newt shrinks into his seat and sulks for the rest of the ride to Crowley’s house.

Crowley pushes open the car door and waits. Within seconds Aziraphale is beside him with his wheelchair.

“Here you go, dear boy,” it says. “Shall I assist you?”

“No, thanks,” Crowley mumbles and heaves his body into the chair. 

“Is it supposed to sound someone from the 20th century?” Anathema asks, puzzled.

“Must be the default personality setting,” Newt offers as he slides into the passenger seat. “The A2 series were intended to portray different personalities and ethnicities rather than a single default setting. That way a group of them can infiltrate an area without arousing too much suspicion because of their similarities. You could probably change it if you want. I have the manual here.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. Of course Newt would have it. “I don’t need the manual, it’s an android, it’s… supposed to be sophisticated and intuitive and stuff. I’ll be fine.”

“Call me if you need anything!” Anathema shouts before she closes the car door. She gives him one last wave before they drive off.

And now Crowley is alone with the android. 

“Crowley? Would you like to go inside?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Yeah,” Crowley mutters. He steers his wheelchair up the ramp and through the front door, which opens automatically for him. The artist swivels his wheelchair around to face Aziraphale. The android’s LED light is blinking yellow again as it takes in its new surroundings.

“May I have permission to interface with your house controls? It will allow me to perform my full functions including household monitoring, climate control, and Internet access.” 

“Sure, why not,” Crowley shrugs.

“I require a password.”

“Oh. Right. It’s…” even if the android doesn’t care, Crowley can’t help but feel embarrassed about reciting his password. “…BestofQu33n1946. All together. Capital ‘B,’ Capital ‘Q.’ Two 3’s in ‘Qu33n.’”

A flicker of yellow. Then… “Authorization granted. Thank you, Crowley.”

“S’no problem.”

“What would like me to do next?”

“You can—ah…” Crowley begins to say something but trails off awkwardly. Aziraphale is an android, and is less capable of mounting a genuine emotional response than a pet dog. But a pet dog doesn’t have a human face and human mannerisms so this is _weird._

“Would you like me to go over my functions?” Aziraphale offers.

Crowley winces. “No, God, no, I don’t need to hear about your 3 million functions—“

“I am not limited by 3 million functions, I am completely capable of learning more should you require me to.”

“Just… Just clean. Please. Thanks. And don’t touch anything in my art studio.”

“Yes, Crowley.” The android turns to tidy up the pile of mail on the table. 

Crowley sticks around awkwardly for a few seconds before he decides to paint. It’s a wasted effort of staring uselessly at a blotchy canvas before he gives up and checks on Aziraphale. The android has moved on from the living room and into his kitchen.

“Oh, hello Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “You have only coffee grounds and box meals in your kitchen. Would you like me to go to the store? I know 5,000 recipes.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Nutrition is very important. Especially in your current state—“

“I said I’m fine!” Crowley snaps. 

Aziraphale just blinks. “Very well,” it says pleasantly.

“No, sorry, I…“ Crowley begins an apology but then realizes that it really wouldn’t matter either way. …Would it?

He looks at Aziraphale’s round, friendly face. “All right, go to the store and pick up whatever you want. But don’t go crazy.”

“Do you have any food allergies or preferences I should adhere to?”

“Anything’s fine.”

“May I have permission to access your bank account so I can purchase items?”

“…Sure…?”

“I promise I won’t make any purchases without your permission first. Shall I set my spending limit for this grocery store trip to £60?”

It sounds reasonable, so Crowley agrees and within an hour Aziraphale returns bearing groceries.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” it says as it begins to sort the food, “so I got ingredients for popular, simple dishes and you can let me know what you think.”

“Er, thanks.”

“Would you like me to cook something for you?”

“No, I’d… I’d rather just go to bed. Just… you can keep tidying up things.”

“Very well. Good night, Crowley.”

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**[1 Day Together]**

Crowley wakes sometime in the late morning and groans softly. He props himself up with one hand and rubs his eyes.

“Good morning, Crowley.”

“GAH!!” Crowley jerks back so fast he topples over. After a very disorienting moment, he realizes it’s Aziraphale standing at his bedside. 

The android cocks its head to one side. “Are you all right, dear boy?”

Crowley rights himself and glares up at the android. “Why are you in my room?!” He demands.

Aziraphale beams. “I was observing you to make sure you were safe. It’s one of my many helpful functions.”

“So you were standing there, right beside my bed, bloody _staring at me all night_?”

“Yes,” the android answers brightly.

“Ngk—!“ It’s too early for Crowley to formulate proper responses under this much stress. “Aziraphale, don’t—You can’t just— _Don’t_ stand over me and watch me sleep, unless there’s an emergency.” Crowley amends. 

“I can stay in the living room and undergo a sleep mode at night while maintaining connection to the household surveillance. Would you like me to do that, Crowley?”

“Yes, please,” the artist grits out as he places his head in his hands.

“Very well,” Aziraphale nods. “Would you like some breakfast?”

Crowley hesitates. “…Yeah, sure,” he replies.

Aziraphale approaches the bed and reaches out for him—

“I got it,” Crowley snaps, shoulders hunching defensively. “I don’t need help getting out of my own bed.” He plants himself into his wheelchair and lifts his legs in.

“My apologies, dear,” Aziraphale replies pleasantly, taking a measured step back. “What would you like to eat?”

Crowley grabs the chair controls and rolls forward. “Whatever’s fine. Coffee first.”

“Very well,” Aziraphale says, following after him.

The coffee machine is already brewing by the time Crowley reaches the dining table. Aziraphale fills up his mug and Crowley lets out a muted, happy sigh as he sips. After another sip, he reaches for his medication bottle and thumbs it open.

“Shit,” he mutters.

Aziraphale, who had been rummaging through his cabinets, straightens itself. “Something wrong, Crowley?”

“Ran out of my meds…” [1]

“Oh, dear.”

“I have another bottle in my bedroom. In the bedside drawers.”

“I’ll get it at once.” Aziraphale says, and disappears down the hall. It returns seconds later with a new bottle in hand and sets it on the table.

There are no questions about the medication or subtle watching to make sure he’s taking the pills. Aziraphale simply returns to the kitchen. Crowley might, honestly, get used to this. The artist pops open the bottle and swallows the pills down with his coffee.

Beverages aside, Crowley never really had a marked interest in what he ate, it was all just sustenance to him. He technically _can _cook, but after he became wheelchair-bound the appeal of preparing meals became distasteful, mostly due to the fact that now all his cooking surfaces are more difficult to reach properly. Currently, he’s been surviving on delivery meals and leftovers and the occasional meal shared with Anathema and Newt.

Aziraphale is as efficient in the kitchen as it is with anything else. After a brief search, it unearths Crowley’s cookware. And with a flicker of its LED, the stovetop turns on by itself. Crowley raises an eyebrow at the ingredients Aziraphale puts on the kitchen island.

“A full English breakfast?” Crowley states from his spot at the dining table.

“Yes, I thought something traditional would be nice,” Aziraphale states, pausing just before it tips the mushrooms into the hot pan. “Would you prefer something else?”

“S’all the same to me.”

Crowley drums his fingertips on the dining table as he watches Aziraphale work. It feels a little ridiculous to sit in silence while an android cooks his meal, even if he’s pretty sure Aziraphale doesn’t mind. 

“So you were combat android before,” Crowley begins. “What was that like? You must have some interesting stories.”

Aziraphale glances up at him briefly as it plates the sausages. “Oh, not really. I was assigned to guard the garden of a wealthy aristocrat in the Middle East for a few years before I was retired. I never saw battle. There were some of the A2 series that did, of course. But for my part, my previous occupation was relatively peaceful.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing...”

Later, while Crowley is eating his (delicious) breakfast, Aziraphale speaks up again.

“I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for buying me,” it says.

Crowley’s shoulders hitch up. “It’s nothing,” he mumbles into his eggs.

“I had been at the store for some time, you see. Not many people are keen on purchasing second-hand androids, especially if they are old models.”

“Ngh,” Crowley shrugs.

“It makes me wonder why you bought me.”

Crowley shrugs again. “You weren’t as intimidating as the other ones and…“

Because when Crowley saw that obsolete android in the corner, when he heard the words “repurposed,” he couldn’t ignore the harsh, sympathetic pang that rang down to his bones.

“…that’s it, really,” he finishes lamely.

“Well, either way,” Aziraphale refills his coffee with a smile, “thank you.”

.

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**[5 Days Together]**

“There’s a young boy and a dog at the door,” Aziraphale announces.

“That’ll be Adam and Dog,” Crowley glances up at him. “They’re our neighbors.”

“The dog’s name is ‘Dog?’”

“Yeah. Let them in.”

The door swings open and Adam Young bounces in. His eyes grow wide when he sees Aziraphale.

“You really _did_ get an android!” Adam says in lieu of a greeting.

“Hello Adam, my name is Aziraphale,” Aziraphale greets. Dog circles the android curiously.

“Wicked!” Adam breathes. He flashes a wide smile. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale returns the smile. “Nice to meet you, too. What a charming young man you are.”

“Don’t let him fool you, he’s quite a terror when he puts his mind to it,” Crowley calls.

“Wow, your house actually looks _clean!_” Adam declares, making his way to the living room. “D’you think mum and dad will let me get an android?”

“No, because they have a bratty kid like you to do the work,” Crowley grins.

“Really, Crowley…” Aziraphale admonishes. 

“He’s eleven, it’s about time he learns how the world works,” Crowley waves off its concern.

“You know,” Adam says, looking up at Aziraphale and tilting his head to one side. “If you took off that light on your forehead, you’d look just like a regular human.”

“I’m required by the United Kingdom Androids Act to have my external feedback biocomponent and android identifiers in place,” Aziraphale answers.

“Adam, stop inciting anarchy and go play outside in the garden,” Crowley grumbles, jabbing a finger in the general direction of ‘outside.’

“Do you know any good stories?” Adam says, taking Aziraphale by the hand and leading it out. “I bet you know loads.” 

Dog barks, as if to agree.

“I have over 3,000 children’s stories stored in my memory.” Aziraphale puffs up a bit in pride. 

Crowley chuckles and follows after them.

Aziraphale is a little awkward at first. Crowley can see its LED blink yellow as it stumbles a bit at Adam’s wild stories, but the boy is enthusiastic and patient. They play a game that started out like pirates of some sort, but in space, with Crowley’s wheelchair serving as a rocket ship, which then devolves into Crowley and Adam swinging sticks like rapiers at each other. Dog yips in happy circles around them.

“Surrender, pirate scum!” Adam shouts. 

“Never, brat!” Crowley yells back.

“Allow me, my dear,” Aziraphale says, plucking the twig out of Crowley’s hands. Adam thrusts his ‘sword’ forward and Aziraphale parries easily. Adam laughs in delight and swings wildly, ducking and running about the android to try and throw it off. Aziraphale calmly blocks every attack.

“Cheater!” Adam says, but he’s grinning broadly. “You brought your android to protect you!”

“You bet I did,” Crowley grins. “This war is as good as won, Adam, Defender of the Galaxies!”

Adam does win, in the end. Aziraphale ‘drops’ its guard and Adam catches the android in the back. Crowley has no chance of escaping the boy, but the artist fakes a heart attack to rob Adam of the victory kill.

Mr. Young picks up Adam in the late afternoon.

“Oh, you really do have an android now, Crowley,” he says, looking at Aziraphale curiously.

“Dad, can we get an android?” Adam asks.

“No,” Mr. Young states immediately.

“Aww!” Adam turns to Aziraphale. “Mr. Aziraphale you can play with me and friends any time!”

“Thanks for watching him for the afternoon,” Mr. Young says, nodding to Crowley and Aziraphale. “Dierdre and I really appreciate it.”

Aziraphale waves before it shuts the door.

“Thank God you’re an android, because I cannot keep up with that boy’s energy, even back when my legs worked,” Crowley adds, reclining back in his chair with a sigh. 

“He’s a sweet boy.”

“Oh, don’t let him hear you say that, it’ll go straight to his head.”

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**[21 Days Together]**

Crowley wakes up in agony. It takes a while for his sleep-addled mind to grasp what was happening, but then his legs _tense-tense-tense-too-tight_ and he can’t stop the strangled cry that escapes his throat. He reaches down to grasp his tightening calf, like he can will it to relax. He feels his foot flex and he bites down hard on his lower lip to stifle a scream. 

“Crowley, what’s happened!” comes Aziraphale’s voice. The blanket is yanked away and Aziraphale is there against the moonlight, worry on its face.

“My… my legs…” Crowley manages through gritted teeth. “Cramping.”

“Oh dear…”

“S’fine, it’ll go away soon.”

“But you seem to be in terrible pain.”

“It’ll pass,” Crowley hisses. “Always does.”

Aziraphale settles on the bed, wedging its larger body between the artist’s knees.

“What the hell are you—“

Aziraphale grasps his left calf and ankle and Crowley recoils.

“Wait—_ow!_ Azira—“ He screams as Aziraphale’s fingers works into the too-tight calf muscle. “Stop stop stop—it hurts!”

“I know, dear,” the android soothes, pausing for a brief moment, “but I promise it’ll help to relax the muscle. May I continue?”

Crowley’s leg tenses again, making him gnash his teeth together. “Fine.”

Aziraphale presses the foot up and down, and Crowley sucks his breath in sharply. His fingers grip the bedsheets harshly as Aziraphale leans forward to carefully bend the knee up to Crowley’s chest. 

Crowley twists and buries his head into his pillow, ignoring the feeling of Aziraphale’s stomach pressed up against his inner thigh. Something stirs in his lower belly, and he hides his flushed, hot face in the cool relief of the sheets. He’s in too much pain to explore those feelings right now, and honestly the soothing press of Aziraphale’s fingers on his skin is making the agony ebb away bit by bit.

“May I ask you about your injury?” Aziraphale asks as it stretches the left leg out to its full length. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“S’alright,” Crowley mumbles into the bed. “Car accident. I was walking on the street—ngk!—picking up some paint and—ack!” He jerks as Aziraphale turns its attention to his right leg, starting with the calf and ankle. “Car hit me. Incomplete spinal injury, the doctors called it. I can’t—ghk!—move my legs, but I still have some sen—ow!—sensation. Mostly it’s like pins and needles.”

“Ah yes, that’s what you take the medication for, isn’t it?” Aziraphale is guiding his right knee up to his chest and Crowley has to shove the mortification aside to answer.

“Yeah.”

“I can do range-of-motion exercises on you regularly, if you’d like? It should help with sudden onsets of cramping.”

“Ngh, I’ll think about it.”

Aziraphale is rolling his right foot around gently. It occurs to Crowley then that Aziraphale had coaxed him into talking to help distract him from the pain. 

“Thank you,” Crowley says.

“Anytime, dear boy.” Aziraphale replies, smiling. 

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**[25 Days Together]**

Crowley glares down fiercely at the stubborn canvas before him. He twirls his paintbrush around his nimble fingers and tries to reach for inspiration. Crowley hasn’t really painted since the accident. He’d been too distraught to even consider art, and any previous attempts usually ended with him chucking the inadequate painting aside in frustration. He throws some black and deep blue on the canvas, just to occupy himself. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale calls as it enters the studio. It has a few clothes in its hands.

“Ngk?” He responds absentmindedly.

“I was tidying up your bedroom and these articles don’t seem very used. I was wondering if you would like to keep them or perhaps donate them?” It holds the items up for Crowley’s consideration: a pair of suspenders,[2] a hideous shirt with some sort of cute creature on it,[3] and a tartan bowtie.[4]

“Ugh, please donate them,” Crowley mutters. “Actually, wait…”

He wheels over to the android and reaches out for the tartan bowtie. Crowley cocks his head to one side for a moment and lets out a thoughtful hum. 

“I think this suits you, somehow,” he murmurs. “Why don’t you try it on?”

Aziraphale places the other clothing items on a (relatively) clean surface and takes up the bowtie. The LED at its temple flashes for a moment and Crowley correctly assumes that Aziraphale must be looking up how to put a bowtie on. After a few seconds, Aziraphale is tucking the bowtie ends into place.

“How do I look?” It asks.

“Not bad,” Crowley replies. “Makes you look more like—“

_Mine_, is the first word that comes to mind, but it doesn’t sound quite right. The bowtie isn’t a collar of ownership, notwithstanding that technically Crowley owns Aziraphale. It’s more like the bowtie is a characteristic to distinguish Aziraphale out of a default category of androids.

“It looks nice,” Crowley says, and returns to his canvas.

“Crowley, are you sure you don’t want me to tidy up your studio a little bit?”

Crowley groans. “_Yes_, Aziraphale. That’s an order.”

“Yes, Crowley.”

Giving Aziraphale directives always makes Crowley a little uncomfortable. The sudden, jarring halt of Aziraphale’s personality dropping into neutral subservice is unsettling, but the damn android is so apt at finding _loopholes _that sometimes the artist has to metaphorically put his foot down.

And then a thought comes to him.

“Aziraphale, can you stand over there?”

“Certainly, dear boy.” Aziraphale walks to the indicated spot. 

“I think you’d be a good warm-up portrait since you don’t need bathroom breaks like regular models.”

“Happy to help,” Aziraphale pipes up and goes perfectly still. 

Crowley begins an outline in off-white. “You know you’re a weird android, right?” He says, glancing over at Aziraphale. 

“Am I?”

“Yep. I don’t even think I’ve seen another model like you out there.”

“There were only forty A2 series in existence. Of the forty, only twenty-three were functional after we were deemed obsolete. And of the twenty-three, only seven were considered for repurposing.”

Crowley hums, contemplating what shade to use for Aziraphale’s shockingly light hair. “And are any of them as much of a bastard as you are?” He asks with a little smirk.

“Why, Crowley!” Aziraphale has the gall to affect surprise. “I have done nothing but diligently adhere to my duty are your caretaker.”

“See, _that_,” Crowley jabs his paintbrush at Aziraphale’s direction for emphasis, “is exactly what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow, my dear.”

“You say that you’re taking care of me, and yet yesterday you were practically man-handling me in my wheelchair.”

“I was not _man-handling_ you, Crowley, it’s important for you to move every two hours. Or else you’ll develop sores on your buttocks.”

“Hhgk!” Is an approximation of the noise Crowley makes as he nearly chokes on his own spit. 

Aziraphale keeps going. “Do you know that, in some cases, it only takes thirty minutes for a stage one ulcer to form? It’s positively dreadful! And with your boney structure, I’m sure you’ll get an ulcer within hours. Can you imagine an ulcer on your buttocks?”

“You’re a terrible android!” Crowley declares, glaring at Aziraphale. “And stop talking about my arse!”

.

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.

.

**[66 Days Together]**

Crowley has bad days. He’ll admit it. It happens. While he’s had months to semi-cope with the loss of his leg function, occasionally he’s struck with a bout of depression because there’s so much—there’s so, _so much_—that he misses doing. 

In the weeks after he got out of the hospital, he could barely stand to look at all the modifications that had to be done to accommodate his new needs. Like the doorframes that had to be widened, or the ramps that had to be added, or the items from the top shelf that had to be moved to the bottom shelf, or the handle bars that had to be installed in the bathroom. But he drew the line on the Bentley. He nearly threw his bedside lamp at Newt when he suggested installing a hand pedal. Crowley doesn’t _want_ to have to modify his beautiful, beautiful Bentley. He doesn’t _want_ to bloody change everything because his damn legs won’t work anymore.

Anathema, Newt, and Adam, bless them, were the ones who worked on these accommodations while he wallowed in his self-pity.[5] Occasionally, Adam would bring the Them over to help and the clever boy would make a game out of it. They all even bared the brunt Crowley’s mood swings, which were rampant and unpleasant in those early, post-accident days. Crowley doesn’t know what the Hell he did to deserve such good friends, and there’s no word in any language that could articulate how deeply, deeply grateful he is to have them.

Most of the time, Crowley shoves the negative feelings into a little box in his mind not unlike how a black hole sucks up everything around it into a concentrated, compressed singularity. He realizes it’s not exactly the best way to cope with it, but it’s the only way he knows how. 

Inevitably, Crowley crashes, and he _burns_. And usually he finds himself in his Bentley—God, he misses driving—where he can weep uncontrollably in the crushing solitude of everything he used to be.

“Crowley?”

Or, well, where he used to be able to weep uncontrollably in the crushing solitude of everything he used to be…

Aziraphale bends down at the hip to peer through the driver’s window. “Is something the matter, dear boy?” It asks.

“M’fine,” Crowley bites out, dropping his forehead to the steering wheel.

“Are you sure?”

“Leave me alone.”

Aziraphale hesitates. “I… don’t think you should be alone right now.”

“What?” Crowley lifts his head up to glare at it. “You’re an android, you’re supposed to do what I say. Now leave me alone!”

“You seem to be in a lot of distress.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not going to _drive_ _off. _My legs don’t work!” He slams his fist on the dashboard.

Aziraphale doesn’t flinch, but it looks at Crowley for a few long moments before it straightens itself and yanks open the car door. Crowley lets out an indignant yelp as he’s hauled out of the driver’s seat.

“Aziraphale: put me—!“

The android cuts off the order by half-dropping him into his wheelchair. Crowley catches himself on the wheelchair arm and twists up to glare daggers at Aziraphale.

“You bastard!” He snarls. “I’m going to send you back to the Cyberlife store, you piss-poor, defective piece of junk!”

Aziraphale grips the handles of his wheelchair purposefully and wheels him back into the house. “My designation is your caretaker, Crowley. I am taking care of you.”

“I can make you leave me alone,” Crowley threatens, because for all of Aziraphale’s idiosyncrasies, it’s still an android. And an android cannot ignore the weight of a true directive. 

Aziraphale pauses for a moment, then it continues its pace, albeit a little slower than before. “Yes,” it acknowledges. “Yes, you can. If you order me to.”

The artist opens his mouth, about to do just that, except that nothing comes out. He clicks his mouth closed and settles, fuming, into his wheelchair.

Aziraphale takes him to the dining table and opens the windows to let the warm breeze in. It draws the drapes closed, mindful of Crowley’s eyes, before it goes to the kitchen and sets a kettle on the stove. The stovetop switches on as Aziraphale fishes out a box of chamomile and lavender tea from the cabinet. 

Crowley, meanwhile, crosses his arms and listens to the sounds of Aziraphale puttering around the kitchen. A few minutes later, Aziraphale sets down a cup of tea, followed swiftly by a neatly-arranged sandwich (crusts cut off and quartered into triangle shapes) on a plate in front of him. It had learned weeks ago that Crowley typically favored small meals and finger foods rather than extravagant dishes. A weak remnant of defiance makes Crowley shove the meal away petulantly.

Aziraphale just slides the plate back into place and goes about arranging the kitchen and house to give Crowley a semblance of privacy under its careful watch. Crowley holds out for about another five minutes before he reaches out for a piece of the sandwich.

Aziraphale really is turning out to a bit of a bastard about its flagrant knowledge of Crowley’s needs. Crowley would complain, but the sandwich is quite good, and the tea is so nice, and the day is beautifully warm.

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**[128 Days Together]**

“How’s painting?” Anathema asks as she settles on the couch.

“S’alright,” Crowley replies with a shrug. “Madame Tracey asked me to if I would be interested in painting something for her next art gala.”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful. Are you going to do it?”

A pause. “Possibly.”

“He’s already started painting,” Aziraphale reports, setting the tea tray on the coffee table.

“Shut up,” Crowley mutters. 

“Shall I help you get up onto the couch, dear?” The android offers.

“Yes, thank you.”

Aziraphale lifts the artist up from his wheelchair and settles him on the couch across from Anathema. The android expertly arranges the pillows behind Crowley’s back and gently raises the artist’s heels up on the ottoman with another pillow. 

“There we are,” Aziraphale hums and steps back. “Be sure to drink all of your tea, dear boy. I’ll be in the kitchen, but do call for me if you need me.” The android gives Anathema one last smile and exits.

“You’re staring,” Crowley mumbles to Anathema as he sips his tea.

“It’s nothing,” Anathema deflects smoothly. “I’m happy you’re painting again,” she adds with a smile.

Anathema’s hunches are rarely wrong, but even she was a little skeptical when Crowley picked Aziraphale out of the line of androids months ago. But Aziraphale turned out to be exactly what the artist needed.

She saw it three months ago, when she and Newt were dining at Crowley’s house and happened upon a new painting of a certain android in his studio.

She saw it two months ago, when Crowley and Aziraphale were bickering about how Aziraphale secretly rescues Crowley’s discarded plants from the trash bin and replants them elsewhere.

She saw it one month ago, when Crowley finally, finally, allowed a hand pedal to be installed in the Bentley. 

And she sees it now, in the soft lines of Crowley’s face at Aziraphale’s careful touch on the limp legs that used to be the bane of his entire existence.

\---~*~---

[1] The medication Crowley takes for his neuropathy (nerve pain) is gabapentin. He doesn’t take any psychiatric medication because he refuses to go to a psychiatrist. 

[2] Crowley had bought this pair of suspenders ironically about ten years ago. He planned to wear them ironically as well and that’s when his resolution faltered. He flung the suspenders into his closet and never thought of them again.

[3] The shirt was a gift given to him by Newt and Anathema. Anathema claimed the character on the shirt was very similar in nature to Crowley. Since Anathema is a friend, Crowley’s been waiting until an acceptable amount of time elapsed to promptly “lose” the shirt.

[4] The tartan bowtie was gifted to Crowley by a new artist who was also an ardent fan of Crowley’s work. Crowley didn’t have it in him to reject the gift and, honestly, the new artist had very promising talent.

[5] Newt, for all his inability to handle electronic things, is actually rather handy with DIY projects.

\---~*~---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale’s behavioral nuances are inspired by Connor’s behavior in Detroit: Become Human. Connor, even though he is meant to obey his police partner’s (Lieutenant Hank Anderson) directives, frequently disobeys. Connor does this by citing that his overall mission to hunt deviant androids supersedes his partner’s orders. For example: Hank tells Connor to stay in the police car, but Connor gets out anyway and follows him into a crime scene. He tells Hank that being in the car contradicts his mission.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life continues on for a certain android and human.

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**[133 Days Together]**

Crowley has annual appointments with a neurologist for his paraplegia. Crowley hates going to the doctor. He despises waiting in offices for an appointment he should have had two hours ago and looking at their terrible, old magazines. 

“They don’t even play good music here…” Crowley mutters. “Wouldn’t mind hearing some Queen…”

Then the radio, which had been previously tuned into a Christian station, suddenly switches to the local Classic Rock station. The receptionist behind the desk appears very confused and tries to set the radio back, but the rock music plays on. 

Crowley raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale, who looks back at him and beams. 

At last, Crowley is called into the office. A female android comes in to take Crowley’s blood pressure and other vitals. She states that everything is normal and that the doctor will be in shortly. 

Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Fords enters the exam room with her glass clipboard in hand. 

“Hello Crowley,” greets Dr. Fords. As she’s speaking she’s reading through the notes of his last visit. “How are you doing today?”

“Fine.”

“Any new problems with your legs?”

Crowley pats his thigh. “Nah.”

“Do they still bother you?”

“Not as much anymore. Aziraphale stretches them for me.”

“Does it?” Dr. Fords turns to Aziraphale. “Android, what kind of stretches do you utilize?”

“I apply passive lower extremity range of motion exercises every day,” Aziraphale reports. “Hip and knee flexion, hip abduction and adduction, ankle rotation, ankle flexion, and toe flexion. Crowley’s cramps have improved by 78.9% since the exercises began.”

Crowley frowns. He hasn’t heard Aziraphale rattle off like this since their early days together. 

Dr. Fords seems quite pleased. She scribbles a few notes on her clipboard. “Very good. Getting a caretaker android was a good decision, Crowley. Do you have any problems with your medication?”

“Nah.”

“Still having pins and needles?”

“It’s not too bad, s’long as I take my meds and stretch.”

“Good, good. Well, keep it up and I’ll see you next year.”

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**[142 Days Together]**

It's a cold, rainy morning when Anathema receives a call from Aziraphale asking her to come over. 

"He's dreadfully ill and he refuses to see a doctor," the android explains. "Please come at your earliest convenience."

Anathema and Newt are parking in front of Crowley's house within twenty minutes. The front door opens and Aziraphale appears with a large umbrella.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," it says as it lifts the umbrella over their heads.

"Thank you for calling us," Anathema replies as they walk into the house. "How is he?"

"His last temperature taken at 10:06 today was nearly 38.5 C[1]. His temperature at 21:00 last night was 38.0 C[2]. He has chills and a sore throat. He appears fatigued with generalized body aches, though he refuses to tell me so. His last meal was at 17:23 last afternoon and he only consumed about 40% of it."

"It sounds like the flu,” Newt comments, wiping his glasses on his shirt. Aziraphale helpfully produces a handkerchief from its front pocket for him. 

“Thank you,” Newt replies.

“Has he taken any medication?” Anathema asks.

“I can barely convince him to sip tea,” Aziraphale responds.

Aziraphale leads them to Crowley’s door and opens it for them. Crowley looks terrible. He’s sleeping fitfully, the bedsheets thrown about, and a sheen of sweat on his skin.

“Crowley, it’s me. It’s Anathema,” she murmurs as she goes to his side. Anathema places the back of her palm to his forehead. The skin beneath is hot.

Crowley mutters something and tosses his head to the other side.

“I’ll go put some tea on,” Newt says.

“I’ve already started the stove,” Aziraphale says. “Do be careful.”

“Thank you,” Newt nods to him gratefully. “I’ll see if there’s some Tylenol around as well.”

“In the kitchen, in cabinet above the coffee machine,” the android states helpfully.

“Will he be all right?” Aziraphale asks Anathema. 

“His fever is pretty high, but I’m sure once we get some food and fluids in him, he’ll be fine.” She pauses. The android’s still standing by the doorway, his hands clasped loosely in front of him and his feet shifting almost imperceptivity. “Would you like to come in?”

“Crowley’s ordered me out of his room,” the android explains. “He became upset about my attempts to care for him.”

Ah. That would explain why Aziraphale called her. “Well, I’m saying you can come in. I can use the help.”

Aziraphale steps inside purposefully and goes to the closet to retrieve some linen and clothes. Together they switch out the sweaty sheets and clothes with fresh, clean ones, inadvertently waking Crowley in the process.

“You stupid, bloody robot, leave me alone already…” Crowley half-wails in despair. He flaps his hand at the android’s general direction.

Anathema huffs. “Really, Crowley…”

The artist lets out a dramatic groan and pulls the covers over his head. After a moment he throws the blanket off and narrows his eyes at Anathema.

“_Anathema?_ What the hell are you doing here?”

“Aziraphale called me,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and leveling him with the _Look_. “Because apparently you were being too much of a bastard_.”_

Crowley fires back with a glare of his own.

“I’m back!” Newt announces as he enters with a cup of tea and a Tylenol bottle in hand. All heads turn to his direction.

“Oh God, Newt’s here too,” Crowley mutters. 

Aziraphale smoothes the sheets over and turns to Anathema. “I’ll go make some food, shall I? I believe the Americans are fond of chicken noodle soup during cold days. It sounds delightful.”

Aziraphale excuses itself to go cook, but not before it sets the Tylenol bottle on the nightstand. Anathema successfully convinces Crowley to take the medication with a severe glare that conveyed she would shove the damn pills down his throat if he didn’t comply. 

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** _._ **

** [156 Days Together]**

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Aziraphale states as it grips the car tightly.

“Possibly,” Crowley grins as he swerves around a car and fishtails back into the left lane. He chuckles as Aziraphale’s leg jerks as if to press an invisible brake pedal.

“Crowley, my dear, you are most _definitely_ not within the speed limit,” Aziraphale states.

“S’fine.” The Bentley roars through traffic, causing a few pedestrians to dive for safety, and eventually swings into the valet parking area. 

As Aziraphale extricates itself from the seat the organizer of tonight’s art gala, an elderly woman wearing bright clothing, bustles out of the building to greet them.

“Crowley!” She calls delightedly.

“Madame Tracy!” Crowley replies as he opens his car door. “You still don’t look a day over thirty.”

“Oh, hush, you!” She beams at him brightly. 

“Excuse me, Madame,” Aziraphale says politely as he pushes Crowley’s wheelchair over to the driver’s side.

“And you’ve got an android! How nice! Helpful, aren’t they?” She beams at Aziraphale. “And what are you called, dearie?”

“My name is Aziraphale, Madame. It’s very nice to meet you,” the android says while Crowley transfers himself into the wheelchair. 

“Aziraphale. What a lovely name. I hope Crowley hasn’t been giving you too much trouble.”

Aziraphale lifts out two of Crowley’s paintings from the back of the car and hands the last one to the artist. “Not at all, Madame. Adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features.”[3]

Crowley snorts inelegantly.

“Are you nervous?” Madame Tracy asks Crowley. “First show in almost a year, and all? Oh, but I’m sure you’ll do fine. Your art is wonderful.”

Crowley decided to go with a theme that was easy for him to reach: stars. He’s always loved astronomy and he loves playing with hues of color on the night sky. The swirling pallet of the cosmos was one of the reasons he starting painting in the first place. 

He didn’t know how anxious he was until Aziraphale finishes hanging the paintings. This is the first formal art event he’s participated in since the accident. He’s been avoiding public places because he can’t stand being _pitied_. Crowley despises the sympathetic eyes and melancholy looks that label him as disabled before anything else. He shouldn’t be pitied because can still paint, can’t he? He can’t walk, but he can still get to where he needs to go. Cooking’s still tricky, but he can do it if he can put his mind to it. It’s just easier now since Aziraphale does it.

“…ley? Crowley?” comes Aziraphale’s voice. 

Crowley glances up. “Sorry, what?”

“I was asking if you were all right. You seem peakish.”

“M’fine,” Crowley lies.

Aziraphale makes a noncommittal hum. “Your artworks are lovely. I’m certain the patrons will enjoy it.”

The doors open and people file in. Crowley recognizes a few loyal art enthusiasts who’ve been attending his exhibits for years. There’s a few that approach him and say how nice it is to see his art again and how great it is that he got an android. 

“I think I need a drink,” Crowley mutters.

“Best not, dear boy,” Aziraphale advises. It tips its head towards a balding man at the far end of the room. “Mr. Booker over there is discussing with his assistant about exhibiting more of your work. He might speak with you, so it’s probably best to remain sober.”

“You can hear him?” Crowley’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Certainly. He’s very happy to see your paintings again.”

Curiosity takes hold of Crowley immediately. “Sssooo… what else do you hear?”

“Well… Miss Charles over there is trying to proposition Mrs. Dubois.”

Crowley has to bite his lip hard to keep from laughing out loud.

“Madame Tracy is…” Aziraphale narrows its eyes. “I believe she is attempting to flirt with that security guard who is shoving cucumber sandwiches into his coat.”

“Ah, that’s Shadwell. Madame Tracy fancies him but he’s not quite getting the hint.”

The androids cocks its head to one side inquisitively. “Is it normal for Mr. Shadwell to steal food from the gallery?”

“No one wants to stop him. Anyway, Madame Tracy has an excuse to talk to him.”

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**[231 Days Together]**

“Dear… whatever their name is,” Crowley dictates to Aziraphale. He drops his chin into his open palm and sighs. “Why am I doing this again?”

“It’s for the young artists at the Slade School of Fine Art, dear,” Aziraphale reminds him, glancing up at him from the glass tablet it is holding in its hands. “You spoke at their class last semester. And they named one of their classrooms after you.”

“Right,” Crowley exaggerates the ‘tah’ at the end of the word and scratches his chin. “Can’t you just write them the usual drivel?”

“I thought you might like to personalize this one. You seemed to enjoy yourself at that lecture.” 

“Ugh ffffine,” Crowley agrees reluctantly and thinks. “Dear students… Thank you for naming one of your rooms after me. Very gracious. All the best. Crowley.” 

Aziraphale is silent for the few seconds it takes for it to compose the email. “Would you like to hear the final draft?” Aziraphale asks.

“Sure. Wow me.”

“Dear Students of the Slade School of Fine Art,” Aziraphale recites. “Thank you for naming one of your classrooms after me. It is truly an honor to inspire bright, young minds such as yourselves. I look forward to visiting again soon. Best regards, Anthony J Crowley.”

Crowley sighs. “This is why people keep thinking I’m much more eloquent than I actually am.”

“My dear, you’re always eloquent. It’s simply underneath all that aloofness you like to affect.”

“I’m not _affecting_ anything.” Crowley looks affronted. “I’m completely aloof.”

“Oh yes, certainly,” Aziraphale agrees too quickly. 

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**[378 Days Together]**

“Crowley, _please_,” Aziraphale states. “You’ve got to pull yourself together.”

“I can’t—I can’t—“ Crowley struggles through his peals of laughter. “Azira—Aziraphale—“ He breaks off into another fit of uncontrollable giggles, tears leaking out of his eyes. It’s ridiculous! It’s all so ridiculous! It was a whim, honestly, and the artist may have had too much wine during dinner but even through the tipsy daze the idea stuck. So Crowley grabbed the nearest paint can he could reach, dunked his hand into the paint, pressed his handprint into the white canvas, and congratulated himself with a self pat that ruined his third-favorite shirt.

Aziraphale would never actually say it was against the idea, but Crowley’s spent enough time with the android to read the disapproval under its technically perfect smile.

“Crowley, the auction is almost finished!” Aziraphale emphasizes. “You’re going to have to give a speech thanking everyone for their generosity.”

“It’s—it’s just a handprint!” Crowley manages, doubling over his knees.

“I know, dear boy, I know.” Aziraphale surveys around them. Thankfully it wheeled Crowley far enough that no one can hear and, more importantly, Crowley can’t hear the exorbitant amount of money some poor chap was going to spend for a lark.

It keeps an eye on the current bid. Five million pounds and climbing fast.

Then, at last, Crowley takes a heaving, steadying breath and slides his glasses back onto face. “What’s the bid at now?” He asks.

Aziraphale hesitates for a moment. “The painting just sold for ten million,” it says. Crowley feels laughter bubble up his throat—

Aziraphale leans down and presses its fingertips to the artist’s mouth, effectively silencing him. 

“You must remain silent,” Aziraphale advises. “You must remain composed. If you cannot maintain your professionalism, Crowley, then they will find out that the painting is a prank and I’m sure you will dislike that.”

Aziraphale is warm; that tidbit of information isn’t exactly new. Aziraphale has carried him before. They’ve touched. But Aziraphale’s skin over his lips… that’s new. His heart is pounding over the novelty of this for some reason. And somewhere, in the back of his mind, Crowley has a half-realized half-insane wish for Aziraphale to press something _else_ against his mouth.

Crowley is happy he’s wearing his sunglasses. He doesn’t know what sort of expression he’s making, but he doesn’t want to explain it to Aziraphale. It takes longer than it should have for Crowley to realize Aziraphale is waiting for him to answer. The artist nods carefully.

Aziraphale holds its palm in place for another second, before it pulls away. 

The artist clears his throat and drops his gaze. “Right. All right,” he sighs. “Okay, I’m ready to go back.”

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**[401 Days Together]**

Aziraphale knows it’s time to bring Crowley’s lift down when he sees Crowley’s head loll back and his paintbrush slips from his fingers. It commands the lift to bring Crowley to the ground. The artist stirs, but he doesn’t awaken. 

This is the most intensive painting schedule the android has observed to date. It’s not unusual for Crowley to be absorbed in painting, but this time Crowley is bordering on _obsessed. _For the past four days Crowley has been working on a single artwork for at least 18 hours a day, sustaining himself almost exclusively on coffee and an occasional biscuit. He is moody and nearly impossible at this point, sleep-deprived and half-starved. 

“You’re working yourself too hard, dear boy,” Aziraphale murmurs as it wheels Crowley to his bedroom.

“Can’t stop…” Crowley mutters, fingers twitching around a nonexistent paintbrush. “Almost got it.”

“It’ll still be there in the morning.” Aziraphale lifts the artist up onto the bed, making sure that his legs are positioned properly, and draws the covers up to Crowley’s chin. 

The android weighs the ramifications of locking the studio doors for at least twenty-four hours, but Crowley would certainly override it. 

But… there is certainly someone Crowley _can’t_ override. 

Aziraphale turns its attention to the bed. Crowley’s easy, deep breathes signal that he’s asleep, but the android waits another fifteen minutes before it interfaces with Crowley’s phone and makes a call.

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**[402 Days Together]**

“Crowley, it’s time to get up,” Aziraphale says, shaking his shoulder.

“No,” Crowley mutters.

“Best get a move on, dear. Everyone’s already downstairs.”

“Mguh,” Crowley mumbles. Three long seconds later, his eyes snap open. “Downstairs?”

“Yes, they’re waiting for you.” Aziraphale pulls the blanket away and goes to fetch his clothes.

Crowley blinks and pushes himself up to sit. “Waiting for me?”

“Yes, Crowley,” Aziraphale replies briskly. “Now, it’s hot out today so I think perhaps a short-sleeved shirt will do.”

“What’s happening?”

“Mr. Crowley, are you ready for our picnic yet?” Adam says as he bursts into Crowley’s bedroom. 

“The what?” Crowley swivels his head.

Aziraphale frowns. “Adam Young, I am about to get Crowley dressed.”

The twelve-year-old grins sheepishly. “Sorry, Mr. Aziraphale. Sorry, Mr. Crowley. I’ll remember to knock next time.”

“Please head downstairs now. We’ll be down in two shakes.”

“Okay!”

Before Crowley knows it, he’s heaved into his wheelchair, fully dressed for the day, and steered to the living room. 

“Looks like someone slept in,” Anathema says. Beside her, Newt waves at them.

“Ah! Good morning, Crowley,” greets Mr. Young. “Or, rather, good afternoon.”

“Hello, Mr. Crowley! Hello, Mr. Aziraphale!” Chorus the Them.

“Rather good of you to suggest a picnic, Crowley,” says Dierdre Young, who has a picnic basket hooked under her arm. “It’s such a wonderful day outside.”

He did_ what_ now?

“Uh, yep. Sure. Great day outside.” It’s very early, and he hasn’t had his coffee yet, so Crowley hopes his expression is passable. 

Aziraphale is at his side, with its own picnic basket hanging from the crook of its arm, a thermos in its hand, and an amiable expression on its face.

“I’ve packed coffee for you,” Aziraphale says, pressing the thermos into Crowley’s slack hands. “Shall we go, dear?”

They divide themselves between two cars, with the Them piled together in the back of the Youngs’ car and Aziraphale and Crowley situated in the back of Newt’s Wasabi.

Crowley narrows his eyes at the android and sips his coffee. “Why do I feel you had something to do with this?” Crowley hisses.

“Don’t be angry at Aziraphale,” Anathema says from the passenger seat. 

“I knew you’d be in on this too,” Crowley mutters irritably. 

“It was my idea, Crowley,” Aziraphale confesses. “Anathema was only helping me.”

“I hate both of you,” Crowley bites out venomously.

Anathema twists around to look at the artist. “Have you slept more than sixteen hours in the last two days?”

“Yes,” the artist lies, just to be difficult.

“You’re a liar, Anthony J Crowley, and you’re going to spend a day outside and like it.”

Crowley sends her a withering glare that she meets fearlessly.

They all arrive at St. James Park and the Them immediately bolt for the first sunny patch of grass they see. The Youngs select a picnic table where they can watch the children play. Anathema and Newt unfold a picnic blanket and settle down on the grass beside the Youngs.

Aziraphale suggests a spot nearby, under the shade of a large tree. It lays down a thick, extra-large, padded picnic blanket onto some grass. The grass is lush and soft, but Aziraphale packed a couple pillows anyway for Crowley’s comfort. The set-up looks quite welcoming, and that is the only reason Crowley allows Aziraphale to transfer him to the picnic blanket without complaint. Though, Crowley crosses his arms and huffs out a very put-upon sigh to telegraph that he’s still quite upset about being taken away from painting. Aziraphale, the bastard, doesn’t even look affected. The android just plants itself beside him and opens up the picnic basket. After rummaging a bit, it lifts out a small container of food and sets it beside Crowley. 

Crowley studiously ignores the meal and turns his attention to the Them, who are running around. Suddenly Pepper pushes Wensleydale, who shrieks.

“Kids! No fighting!” Dierdre calls.

“Pepper started it!” Wensleydale protests.

“Did not!” Pepper shouts.

“Mr. Aziraphale, come play with us!” Adam urges, running up to the android.

Aziraphale smiles as the child pulls it to its feet. “Very well,” it replies.

“You can be the giant!” Brian pipes up.

“We’re going to be giant killers!” Pepper adds.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley watches with amusement as the Them rope Aziraphale into their newest game. Aziraphale stomps around like a giant and the children scatter in a bustle of laughter. There’s a mild skirmish. Then Aziraphale catches Brian under the arms and lifts him up into the air.

“Got you! You… erm…” Aziraphale pauses. “You… human child!”

“Tell my family I love them!” Brian cries and goes limp. Aziraphale gently sets him back down and Brian flops face-down onto the grass.

“Brian!” Adam cries in dramatic anguish.

Wensleydale collapses onto his knees. “He was so young!”

“You’ll pay for that, giant!” Pepper snarls. In a feat that was rather impressive for a child of her size, she launches at Aziraphale, colliding with the android’s chest and knocking it off balance. 

“Oh, my!” Aziraphale yelps as it lands on its back. The other children—including Brian, who is apparently back from the grave—pile on it immediately, throwing themselves around its legs and across its body. 

“I surrender! I surrender!” Aziraphale cries.

Crowley laughs out loud. A deep rumbling laugh that settles comfortably between his ribs like something he’d been missing for days.

“Let him up, children!” Crowley yells. “If you break Aziraphale, I’m going to be very angry!”

“Right!” Adam replies, getting up.

“Sorry!” Pepper shouts.

Crowley snickers as Aziraphale joins him on the picnic blanket. Its curls are a mess and it’s covered in grass stains. Crowley opens the little food container, amused to find neatly cut egg sandwiches and assorted fruit. He pops an apple slice into his mouth and enjoys the snap of it under his teeth. 

He glances sideways. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale, who is fussing at a dirt stain on its white clothes, turns its head to him. “Yes, dear boy?”

“This was a good idea.”

The android smiles.

\---~*~---

[1] 38.5 C is 101.3 F.

[2] 38.0 C is 100.4 F.

[3] Connor, from _Detroit: Become Human_ says a similar line to Hank, if you chose to improve their relationship together.

\---~*~---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I held off on this chapter for a looooong time because I was never really happy with it 'cause it doesn't really go anywhere. It still doesn't, honestly. ^_^;; I mean, it was never meant to go anywhere but I think compared to Crowley's character arc in chapter 1, this one kinda faffs about. It's really just them going about their lives before "A Touch of Deviance." But I've had a lot of free time recently and I thought, meh, why not publish it. It's a cute chapter and it sorta sets stuff and ties a few things together.....?
> 
> There was another scene I had actually fully written where Crowley and Aziraphale are caught in the rain and Crowley realizes that he is extremely sexually attracted to Aziraphale, but withholds himself because he doesn’t believe Aziraphale, being android, can consent. While it wasn’t too out-of-place in this D:BH universe, I eventually decided to cut it because I felt it didn’t flow well with Crowley’s dialogue at the Ritz in Chapter 2 of A Touch of Deviance and the general theme of Chapter 1 of A Feeling Like Home. Crowley always had an inkling that Aziraphale had more autonomy than he let on, even before he went full-deviant.
> 
> If you're into android and human sexy-times, check out part 3 of this series, "A Display of Fine Art." ;)
> 
> \--Read on, guys. Read on.
> 
> |Corrosive Moon|


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